Spangles of Steel
by visceralfringe
Summary: After the death of General Zod, Kal El believes he is the last of his kind. It has been months since the discovery of the Kryptonian spacecraft and his alien heritage. Little does he know, something else was discovered in the Arctic that year. Something strangely... super.
1. Toes

**If you are a cliffhanger ending, I'm the one that doesn't know anything. **

**Like a magpie and a ring, I am always going to be looking right to you.**

**Oh, you captured my attention. **

**Carefully listening, don't want to miss a thing. **

**Keeping my eyes on you.**

**Oh, you captured my attention.**

**I'm anticipating.**

**I'm watching and waiting...**

**for you to make your move.**

**Got me on the toes.**

**- Lights  
**

* * *

He sits at his desk, listening to a symphony of computer keys and print jobs. A technician's wet dream, this place. Mindless chatter and vicious gossip. Talks of deadlines and deal breakers. He has been working for the _Daily Planet_ for three months and, albeit the occasional bout with death, life is fairly uneventful. He's not high up enough on the totem pole to be given interesting assignments. Sports articles and classifieds, mainly. And errands. Lots of errands. Coffee and ink cartridge runs, to name two.

He does get first dibs on all the juicy news during lunches with Lois though. They don't live together yet, a fact he would rather attribute to the fact that he was raised with country sensibilities, than the truth. That doesn't stop them from holding hands all the way to Mimi's Cafe though. It occurs to him that, in their same booth at the same time, he always orders the same thing. Is everything turning cyclical? Perhaps he should start taking more risks.

Many of Lois' articles are about him and his latest daring feat, which she glosses over… for obvious reasons. He should be grateful he didn't get stuck with the beauty column like Ernie did, being that Beth is out for maternity leave. Then again, he could be like Dale, who gets paid to dine at fine restaurants and complain about how phenomenal the food is. Oh well. It's a good job when it comes to staying "in the know".

His routine is ordinary, though his identity is anything but.

As always, his sable locks are styled in a sophisticated wave, glistening with a slightly inhuman sheen. His skin, though pale, is flawless. Noble brow, Spartan's jaw, impeccable physique, kind, intelligent – the whole package. Sure. Even in disguise, it is no secret that he is a stunner. Averting come-ons from his coworkers is another daily occurrence that is quickly becoming a piece of the doldrums, though he would never say it aloud. They're good people. They mean well.

But can he even afford to forge a relationship incognito? Aside from Lois, that is. Lois...

After giving his temples a good massage, he pushes his glasses up his nose.

"Clark," prompts a crisp voice to his left. He swivels towards it. Marisa, a secretary, unceremoniously drops a stack of papers onto the corner of his desk. "I'm leaving for the day – have dinner plans." She winks. He manages to conjure a congratulatory smile. "I need you to make sure these run tomorrow." With a tart smile and a flippant wave of her hand, she turns on her heel and breezes out of the office.

"Right," he offers dutifully, though she is probably out of earshot.

_So much for going home early…_

Clark makes his way down to the printing room to place the copies in the tray. He knows Richard would appreciate them being in order according to their supposed pages and placement in the columns. He better double check, just in case. Clark leafs through the articles, quickly realizing that Marisa filed them all in backwards order. Clark sighs wryly. Even he knows the headliner runs first.

He rearranges them accordingly and levels the stack against the shelving unit. He is about to leave the articles into the production bin when something about the first page catches his eye. He gingerly picks it back up. He does a double take at the headliner.

_**"Living Man Discovered Frozen In Ice!"**_

He quickly glosses over the article, his brain highlighting words like _arctic_, _submersible_, _ageless_, _expedited healing_, _needle-resistant_, and _uniform_. Could it be?

Clark's mind treks back to the Kryptonian spacecraft embedded in the glacier. The muscles in his jaw start rippling as he grits his teeth together. His mind is reeling, his hope rekindled. Perhaps General Zod wasn't the last. Maybe…

_Maybe…_

Clark's pace is brisk as he makes his way to Lois' office. On his way, he passes (or barely evades a collision course with) a sharply dressed man in expensive, flashy shades. He bears a remarkable resemblance to some celebrity all over the news these days. He makes a pithy remark, but Clark is on a mission. He won't be deterred by him.

_Black_. Or _Dark_. Or something…

He enters without knocking and strides up to her desk purposefully. She takes the phone away from her ear and covers the receiver, eyeing him in mild shock.

"What is it?" she questions.

Sincerity springs to his eyes and he doesn't bother to hide the desperation in his face. "This man." He puts tomorrow's headlining article down firmly in the center of her desk.

Lois glances down at the article, her brows knitting together in confusion. "Oh," she recognizes. "The one they discovered in the Arctic?"

Clark nods stiffly. "I need you to help me find him."


	2. On the Way Down

**On the way down, I saw you and you saved me from myself.**

**And I won't forget the way you loved me.**

**On the way down, I almost fell right through, but I held on to you.**

**I was so afraid of going under **

**but now, the weight of the world feels like nothing.**

_**Nothing.**_

**- Ryan Cabrera**

* * *

Steve Rogers enters his apartment after another long night of boxing at the dusty gym around the corner. He doesn't bother turning the lights on. He knows the layout inside and out. And what's there for a super soldier to be afraid of anyway? Certainly not the dark.

* * *

"And the war?"

"We won, Captain. You've been asleep for over seventy years," Director Fury explains, fingers steepled and elbows propped on the arm rests of his desk chair.

Steve sits across from him, rippling muscles and all, listening attentively and doing his best to maintain eye contact. Fury is clearly someone of repute. His mere presence demands respect. He has to stay strong. He cannot break, especially not in front of a man like this.

The harrowing sight from earlier that day - dashing out into the street of the now bustling metropolis that is New York - is burned into his memory. The electric signs and flashy stores, soaring buildings, strange clothes, corporate advertisements, enormous billboards… Crowded. Congested. Loud. Cold. Everything stinks of materialism.

Welcome to 2013.

How can such a large man feel so small? Steve thought he was the underdog back in Brooklyn. Now, he knows it.

He feels like he is in a nightmare, like he has been beamed up into an alien world. Some things look the same. Others, like the vehicles and communication devices, he could never have conjured in his wildest dreams. Everything he was, and everyone he knew, is gone. So what is he now? Fury's voice rouses him.

"Your excavation did leak to the press." He holds up a copy of the newspaper, waving it indolently. "Seems someone from the dig team couldn't keep their mouth shut. It won't be long before they'll try to bombard you with phone calls and paparazzi visits. Those vultures will do just about anything to pick at your bones." He drops the paper into the waste basket.

Steve manages to smile. "Good to know some things haven't changed." He swallows thickly, setting his mouth into a less than merry line. He shifts uncomfortably.

Fury pursed his lips, his eyes boring into him. "I presume you're not ready to talk about anything yet."

Memories float up to the surface, dancing behind his eyes. He can still hear the cheering, the guns, and her voice.

_You won't be alone._

_You won't be alone._

_But I am alone, Peg._ Everything happened so fast back then. He didn't even have time to grieve the loss of Bucky, let alone her. Peggy was a buoy in an unfamiliar lake. Now, he's stranded in the middle of an ocean and the closest friend in reach is a corpse at the bottom. Steve finally drops his eyes to the floor. "No, sir," he whispers lowly.

Fury nods. "We've taken the liberty of setting you up in an apartment. Rent free, for now. It'll be under twenty four hour surveillance, just to be sure no rats come poking their noses in where they shouldn't. You won't be bothered."

Steve nods. "Thank you, sir."

After a long pause, Fury opens a file cabinet, metal grating against the hinges, and extracts a hefty history textbook from its confines. He drops it into the desk and slides it towards Steve. "Take this with you."

* * *

Steve shuffles across the polished wood, past the granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances. He has almost grown accustomed to the feeling of suffocation, being pushed from all sides, beset by burdens too heavy for even him to bear.

Women's rights, presidential scandals, the collapse of American democracy, superstardom, the growing wealth gap, war after war lost, modesty forgotten, God replaced, the sexual revolution… Sweet Jesus, the sexual revolution. How can something so taboo have become so… ordinary? After all he struggled to suppress, and the self-loathing he harbored – a poison to his soul. It still burns. It still aches. _Homosexuals go to Hell_, his mother told him. Everyone knew that. That was the way of things. Homosexuals were beaten, chastised, and sometimes killed back then.

But now…

Steve had so much on his shoulders when he became Captain America. Instead of a man, he became a symbol. He became a symbol of all that Christian America was supposed to embody. And that certainly wasn't a man interested in other men. Losing Bucky helped, as sick as it makes him feel to admit it. Steve idolized Bucky. Bucky was not only everything he wanted to be, but everything he wanted. If he couldn't have him, he didn't want anyone.

The right partner.

But the right partner couldn't have possibly been another man, could he?

So he settled for Peggy, who in her own way, had a slew of masculine qualities… especially in comparison to the girls he grew up with. There was nothing shy or coy or delicate about her. Heck, she could put a man on the seat of his pants with one punch. Peggy had spirit and grit and moxy. She was as close to a man as he could get. She was very dear to him, if not as a lover then as a friend. Something told him he wouldn't return that day he went to intercept the Hydra airship. And the most intimate goodbye he could give her, he gave. That was his first kiss. His only kiss. Which, these days, is absolutely pathetic as far as society is concerned. Kids are having sex in middle school, for heaven's sake.

He feels so ostracized. Who could look at him and see a man when the definition of a man had changed so drastically?

Steve cards a broad hand through his blond locks, still damp with sweat and uncertainty. He shoulders his gym bag, mentally preparing to wander into his room and pretend to sleep. He turns his head towards the wide window framing the den and stares out at the cityscape beyond. The stars twinkle at him, reflecting in his eyes. If he watches them long enough, he can pretend, even just for a second, that he is in his own time. The stars are constants.

His attention drops to the sofa facing the kitchen and he notices a black shape in the center. And it looks strangely human. Steve's guard is up immediately, internal alarms blaring. Startled, Steve reaches wildly for the kitchen light, flipping the switch clumsily. A man with glossy black hair stares at him, his arms draped over the back of the couch. He is dressed in a business suit and black rimmed glasses. Steve instinctively assumes a defensive pose.

"Who are you?" he demands stridently.

The stranger flashes a badge. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet," the man says in a voice that would have made Steve's legs turn to jelly were he not on the defensive. He flashes him a blinding smile. "I've come to ask you a few questions."

* * *

**AN: So, as I'm sure you're all aware now, I saw Man of Steel yesterday. And the entire movie, all I could do was ship Superman and Captain America. Just sit there and ship, ship, ship. Guilty as sin am I. And I regret nothing. So this fic will probably be pretty short. I'm bogged down with work at the moment, but it's just something that had to be done. HAD TO.**


	3. Love Somebody

**I know your insides are feeling so hollow. **

**And it's a hard pill for you to swallow, yeah. **

**But If I fall for you… **

**I'll never recover.**

**If I fall for you…**

**I'll never be the same.**

**~ Maroon 5**

* * *

_Curses!_ Kal laments breathlessly, desperately trying to refrain from going slackjawed and making a fool of himself. He'll have to mop drool up from the floor to boot.

He's _blond_.

He's blond and sun kissed and built like a tank. There has to be a god, because this man was most definitely crafted by angels. He's got an innocent face and the way he carries himself both suggests he harbors the lion's share of loyalty and bears the weight of the world on those shoulders. He's a soldier, through a through. He's walking perfection. He's handsome and beautiful and radiant. He's a living, breathing marvel. What Kal would give to have that man smile at him. He's _gorgeous_.

This is hardly fair.

Krypton's Bones, Cosmos Damned, and Blood of the Sun, this is _not_ what he expected to see when the lights came on! Heck, lights came on in more than one way. Kal is amazed he held up as well as he did. It's never easy to appear calm when one is at war with himself. Such deres is a weighty burden... Kal feels incredibly superficial for the first time in decades and is assaulted by the guilt that brings. But then again, this is probably the first being he has ever been legitimately attracted to. The way he carries himself is irresistible.

Why is it so difficult to swallow?

* * *

Steve drops his fists, eyeing the stranger skeptically. "Not meaning to impugn your work, Mr. Kent… but I'm not interested," he quips politely. He wants to shut this down before it exhumes too much emotional baggage. He snatches his knapsack from the floor, slings it over his shoulder, and makes for his room. He told Director Fury no interviews. Right?

"Come on," the sable haired stranger says. Persistent fella... "Just a few questions."

Steve sees him stand up from the corner of his eyes. And before he knows it, at a speed that startles him, his arm is barring his way. He follows the muscular limb to the broad hand plastered against the wall. Steve blinks. He must be feeling more sluggish than he thought. Maybe these long nights of no sleep are impeding his performance after all. He shakes his head to clear it.

"I'm sorry," Steve repeats.

* * *

The blond ducks under his arm, leaving Kal standing alone in the hallway. And it's not Kal's fault that the other man has an exceptional physique, or that his eyes immediately trail south to admire it. Kal wilts a little, visibly discouraged and tempted to pout, but his spirits are no more dampened than his determination. He is on a mission. He furrows his strong brow and strides forwards. "I heard they found you in the Arctic. In the ice."

"Bravo. Your hearing is remarkable," the blond mutters.

Kal, whose expression has turned from rejection to deadpan, follows at the blond's heels. "How long were you trapped in there?" As Steve hangs a left into his bedroom, "Where do you come from?" The blond doesn't answer him, and from the looks of things, he is less than keen on doing anything but ignoring him at this point. Sure, Kal broke into his apartment, and that's technically against the law and a blatant invasion of privacy. But he'll be damned if he put all this effort in without even a name in return. He needs to know. He NEEDS to know.

"What's your name?" Kal's voice trails off as he stares into Steve's room while the man unpacks his duffel and collects an assortment of items from drawers elsewhere.

The room is bland, ordinary, and dull. The walls are a dead, creamy white, and bare as a newborn's bottom. The bed is so meticulously made, the sheets so impossibly smoothed out, that Kal has to wonder if he has ever even used it. There isn't a speck of dust on the vanity, not a smudge on the mirror, and no photos on the bureau either. There is a single piece of paper and a pen on the corner desk, but that is all.

This looks more like a prison cell than an occupied bedroom. And Kal is beset by a spate of both empathy and sympathy. Empathy for the fact that he understands the lack of connections to the outside world, and sympathy for the fact that he will never understand it to this extent. What must it be like to have nothing?

Kal remembers his room and the posters of famous baseball players, family photos, calendars, horrible crayon sketches… Kal had parents, human or not, and that kept him from utter isolation. Did this man have that luxury? Could he be an alien too? Surely, he couldn't be human. A human could never be revived from a prolonged period of frozen insides.

Was anyone there to claim him when he awoke?

Meanwhile, the blond throws a clean towel over his shoulder, tucking a change of clothes under his arm, and pivots on his heel. He means to shower. The blond crosses to the door, which Kal blocks with little effort on his part. They meet eyes, though neither of them are expecting to, or prepared for the bombardment of feelings afterwards. The blond pauses for a second too long. And Kal, tongue tied, forgets how to speak, let alone the common social graces of moving aside for a person who needs to get by.

* * *

Steve falters. His heart leaps up into his throat. Clark has eyes bluer than the calmest ocean or the clearest sky. Even behind the black rimmed glasses, they conceal nothing scornful or condescending. There is truth embedded in those eyes, and etched into the sincerity in his face, the likes of which Steve has never seen. And before he knows it, his own cheeks are flooded with heat. Fully aware a blush will light him up like a Christmas tree, Steve averts his eyes.

"I'm not interested," he declares. "Please step aside."

But Clark doesn't move… and Steve doesn't have the heart to curse him for it.

"Goodnight, Mr. Kent," Steve states tensely. He moves to shoulder his way past his brawny visitor. Clark plants his hand in the center of his chest. With renewed numbness, Steve tries to push against it… and is met by inhuman resistance. He frowns, gradually tilting his chin down to stare at the hand cemented on his chest. With the truth registering, he slowly lifts his eyes. This must be a dream. Steve is suddenly flooded with confusion. Is Clark a friend? Or an enemy? If this man is an enemy, and his strength suggests that he has come looking for a fight, then why is there no fight in his eyes?

Steve finds Clark's face, his eyes tracking warily over the features. There is something new in Clark's eyes now. It's small, a mere flicker in the glossy blue, but he knows it for what it is.

Hope.

Neither of them breathe, teetering on the precarious brink between pleasantries and explosive action. They each wait for the other to make the first move. They each wait for some indication as to whether their meeting is about to turn into an altercation. Steve watches a subtle, sincere, and slightly sad smile appear at the corner of Clark's lips, an invitation for something Steve does not yet understand.

Could this man be a member of Hydra? Or another test subject of the old doctor's?

No one has ever looked at him like this before. _Really_ looked at him.

He's close enough for Steve to inhale the combined scents of his body wash, cologne, and laundry detergent. It's an enticing mix, the sort that makes part of Steve start to pine and pant like a lovesick puppy. And Steve is certain Clark's broad hand can feel his hammering heart. Clark is too close. He's too close and Steve is having trouble keeping his composure in more ways than one.

Wait. Wait!

This cannot be happening.

God, please. Not now. Not like this. This can't be it. This cannot be the moment he has held his breath for. He's not ready for it.

God damn it all, he's not ready to find the right partner! He's too damaged. No one would ever want him this way. What he is now, there is no work for it but broken.

Nothing would make him happier than to shatter in front of this man and let him pick up the pieces. Nothing would set him freer than to be in the cage of his arms. He can feel it. He knows it in the depths of his soul. Clark is something he cannot afford to do without.

"Who are you?" Clark whispers to him, his eyes practically begging for an answer that Steve is not sure he can give him.

Do they know each other? … _Don't_ they know each other? Haven't they met some place far afield, in another life, on another world? Because surely, Steve knows him. Knows him intimately. His mind is already unwrapping Clark from that business suit, envisioning scenarios that would make even the most experienced adult entertainer blush.

_Sinner._

The naked emotion on Clark's face terrifies him. Steve opens his mouth, his lips working as though they would like to speak. He finds his fortitude melting under the heat of Clark's skin. He loves and hate this. He suddenly pushes past Clark, exerting more strength than the man was prepared to thwart, and hastens into his bathroom. He slams the door and quickly twists the lock into place. He stands on the opposite side, his wide blue eyes staring down at the stationary doorknob. He trembles. He feels exposed, embarrassed, and above all else, ashamed. Because surely, if his mother could have seen him then, in that moment, gazing at Clark like a devoted lover, he would have broken her heart.

* * *

Kal stands rooted to the floor, stunned. His mind is reeling. For an instant, he saw the singular most desperate desire of a hero's heart appear in the blond's eyes... for _him_. He saw need. He saw it clear as day. But that indomitable need was quickly masked by guilt, shock, and anguish so profound that it could haunt him forevermore.

Perhaps Kal made a mistake in coming here after all, but underlying all that, he saw something brewing just below the surface, something terrifying in this man's eyes. And he knows it would be an even bigger mistake to leave. Kal turns towards the bathroom door. "I think we have something in common. Several things, perhaps. I'm sorry for intruding." He stammers for a moment. "Let me… try this again, off the record." He takes a deep breath, but doesn't let it out immediately. If he expects the truth from this golden haired god, he has to do the same.

Ante up, alien.

Kal removes his glasses and lays his hand on the doorframe. "My true name is Kal. Kal-El. A ship belonging to my people was discovered near the site you were excavated from. I thought… maybe…" He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He swallows thickly and sets his teeth. "I come from the planet Krypton. And I've never met anyone like… I thought I was… Am I alone?" He waits, but there is no response from behind the door. "Please, talk to me."

Because for some reason, Kal needs this man to talk to him. He needs to be with him, to abide in the same space, heart, and bed. The connection he feels, in both the physical and the spiritual sense when they stood in the doorway to Steve's bedroom is unparalleled as far as his life experiences go. Kal closes his hand, resting his forehead against his iron fist. His body feels too heavy to move, and it all stems from the lead weight inside his chest. He musters his courage.

"I know you want me to go, but I can't leave without telling you this. I've been here for as long as I can remember. I've been a lot of places recently, and witnessed a lot of things. But… You… You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He waits again. Nothing. "Say something, please. _Anything_."

Kal's shoulders droop with a heavy sigh. He turns from the door with a mind to let the man have his privacy. He should go. He really should. But for some reason, he takes another glance into his room. He steps inside, letting his eyes take inventory of the absent accessories. Once again, he sees the note on his desk. There is writing on it.

He shouldn't read it.

He shouldn't even consider reading it. God knows he has disturbed this man enough for one night.

But…

It pulls him like metal to a magnet, something about the elegant swirls and uniform sizing. He can't resist. Just a peek. Then he'll be on his way.

Kal wanders towards the desk, takes the letter between his fingers, and begins to read. And by the end, leaving will be impossible.


	4. War

**With no-one wearing their real face, it's a whiteout of emotion and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall. **

**When the love in letters fade, it's like moving in slow motion. And we're already too late... if we arrive at all. **

**And then we're caught up in the arms race, an involuntary addiction, and we're shedding every value our mothers taught. **

**So will you please show me your real face? Draw the line in the horizon? Cause I only need your name to call the reasons why I fought.**

**~ Poets of the Fall, War**

* * *

_My name is Steve Rogers. I don't know why I'm writing this letter… or maybe I do, I'm just not ready to admit it._

_That's pretty sad, given that I'm now into my nineties. A ninety old virgin, to be exact. May as well join a convent Steve-o. _

_I digress. __I was born in Brooklyn a couple decades ago._

_I'm "older than I look"._

_I was small back then. I was just a scrawny guy with nothing but good parents and blind faith. I didn't really have any friends growing up until I met Bucky. I think we met in high school, but I'm not sure anymore. Bucky was the epitome of a stand-up guy. He was everything I wanted to be - tall and strong and smart and fast. He was real brave. Everyone looked up to him. I did too and sometimes I wonder if he knew just how much._

_I consider him a real friend now. Although, looking back, I'm not sure that was ever truly the summation of things. I guess he was more like a big brother. I wouldn't go so far as to call me a charity project, but we certainly weren't equals. He always looked out for me. He watched my back. I got in fights a lot, but if I'm honest, none of them were initiated by me. My size, or lack thereof, made me a pretty easy target. And I just didn't know how to say no. I couldn't turn the other cheek. I couldn't walk away. I wanted to fight._

_I wanted a reason to fight._

_The only thing I was good at was drawing. But back then, only sissy boys did that sort of thing._

_Anyway, after college, Bucky enlisted in the military. He drove all the way from upstate, eager to answer Uncle Sam's call. By that time, I wanted so badly to be noticed by him, to be considered someone worth looking at, that I decided to enlist too. Except… well…_

_I couldn't._

_They wouldn't let me in. I didn't pass my physicals. I was too small and I had asthma and heart problems to boot. I was a medical mess and a liability that the military couldn't take on. The news hurt a lot, but I was used to disappointment. And I wasn't about to lay down and throw in the towel._

_I started falsifying my identity and applying at any station I could. I had never lied before, let alone broken the law, but if they wouldn't accept Steve Rogers, I would have to become someone else. I had to get in._

_I was rejected more times than I want to admit, probably upwards of 30 denied applications._

_Dammit, Bucky was everything to me. His was the only opinion that mattered. And I thought getting into the military, getting in shape, training hard, and proving my devotion to my country would show him I was… worthy of him. For a supposedly nerdy kid, I was pretty stupid._

_Bucky set me up on a blind date with this girl. I don't remember what she looked like. I guess it was to cheer me up or something. We were celebrating in Time Square. I don't remember why. Howard Stark had invented a flying car or something. There was a recruiting stand in the back of the crowd. I was pretty angry with Bucky, and the girl I was with was a head taller than I was and already looking for my replacement. I slipped away and marched into the booth. A foreign doctor met me in the waiting room. I didn't know at that point, but I was going to be working with that doctor for quite some time. I was pretty stunned, being that he found out about me falsifying my identity. He said fraud was a federal offence. I thought he was going to bust me, not approve me._

_It was too late to tell Bucky. He had already left with the girls. But I thought I would tell him when he got back._

_When I got back…_

_Anyway. During my time in the service, I was selected for a special experiment. The government was trying to create the perfect soldier - a super soldier, something that could turn the tide against the Nazis. For reasons I'll never understand, they selected me. I mean, I didn't think it was all that special that I knew you could pull the pin out of the flagpole to get the flag on top, or that I dived on top of a fake grenade. Anyone would do that. Right?_

_They strapped me up to a medical table and injected me with some sort of serum. Then they put me in a tube for a while… and shined a bunch of bright lights in my face. It hurt worse than getting kicked in the crotch. But whatever it was, it changed me physically. When I emerged from the tube, I didn't recognize myself._

_I grew taller and filled out. I was faster and stronger. They told me I didn't look half bad either._

_Whatever the case, I knew I was finally something Bucky could approve of. There was an enemy mole in the audience. He shot the good doctor that made me. I chased him down to the docks. He killed himself with a cyanide pill before I could get anything out of him._

_That was the beginning of my career as Captain America._

_I became a symbol of everything Christian America was supposed to embody. At first, I was almost like a poster child, an anti-Hitler mascot, until I proved that I could fight by venturing into enemy territory to rescue Bucky's platoon. I still don't know if he was happy to see me. I think he was more surprised than anything._

_From that day on, I was an essential component of the U.S. military. We devised a strategy that could bring down Hydra, the root of the war. We were so close. And I swore to myself that when we got back, I was going to tell Bucky everything. I was going to lay it all out on the table and come clean. I was going to man up and ask him to be with me - to be mine. Because I wanted him the way a man was supposed to want a woman. _

_But on the way to Hydra's base… we had an accident. And despite all of my superhuman powers and the muscles and the speed and agility and the cunning I was gifted with when injected with the serum, I couldn't save Bucky. We stowed aboard a train carrying some of Hydra's key personnel. The tracks led up into the mountains. The weather was bad. Bucky fell into a snow choked canyon. Miles, perhaps. He screamed when he fell. I reached for him, but I was too far away._

_Maybe I've always been too far away. Maybe I never would have reached an even if... even if I had told him how I felt._

_I was pretty numb after that. I guess, in that emptiness, Peggy was the only one within reach. She was beautiful, but not the beautiful I wanted. Our strategy eventually panned out and we were able to defeat the Reds, but an airship carrying several nuclear bombs was headed for the mainland. There was no safe place to put it. I had to bring it down into the Arctic Ocean. All I could think about as the water got closer was how Bucky must have felt when he fell._

_It was a trip I didn't expect to come back from. And frankly… I didn't want to come back from it._

_That was my farewell. That was my service. That was supposed to be the end of my story._

_Seventy years later, I opened my eyes again, but the world I awoke to wasn't the same. It had moved on, and rightfully so, without me while I was frozen in a glacier. Everyone I had ever known, my family and my few friends… They were gone. It was just me. It was just me and this body that wouldn't age, wouldn't die, and wouldn't change. But everything else was so drastically different._

_I know now that I can't keep up. I can't._

_When I woke up, they said we won the war, but they didn't say what we lost. They didn't tell me how many people had died at the hands of the Germans. They didn't tell me that we were still fighting, and had been fighting since then. They didn't mention the countless Wars around the world with no point or purpose other than for power and land._

_All those years of pretending, what did they get me? I am a lost ideal. I'm a relic. I stand for something that doesn't exist anymore._

_I slept for 70 years. For the life of me, I don't understand why I'm still so tired._

_I've cried every morning for a while now. Sometimes, I go to sleep not hoping for anything. Sometimes, I go to sleep hoping that I never wake up again..._


End file.
